PS 
1721 

F9I7 


SONGS  OF  SORROW. 


SONGS     OF     SORROW 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS, 


REV.    A.    L.    FRISBI  E. 


DES    MOINES: 
MULLS    & 

1873. 


DES    MOINES! 
MILLS   &   COMPANY,   PRINTERS. 


-ps 


DEDICATED 

TO 

MY   ANGEL  WIFE. 
'Volo  ut  ubi  sum,  et  illi  sint  mecum." 


762873 


SONGS    OF    SORROW. 


DARKNESS  AND  SILENCE. 

Into  the  gladness  of  our  happy  dwelling 
Came  first  a  fear  and  then  a  grievous  pain ; 

Came  first  sad  prophecy,  then  sad  fulfilling, 
As  love's  blent  life  was  rudely  rent  in  twain ; 

And  she  who  was  the  very  soul  and  center 

Of  home  and  hope  through  sweet  and  sunlit  years, 

Before  us  passed  the  shadowed  door  to  enter, — 
The  unknown  life  of  unseen  higher  spheres. 

She  passed  before  us  and  our  eyes  were  holden ; 

An  utter  darkness  fell  upon  our  sight ; 
What  light  she  saw,  what  forms,  what  gate- way  golden, 

We  knew  not,  saw  not  in  our  heavy  night. 


SONGS  OF  SORROW. 

And  still  that  sea  of  darkness  rolls  behind  her ; 

Still  veils  and  hides  the  place  of  her  abode ; 
No  patient,  prayerful,  tearful  quest  can  find  her; 

She  has  become  a  mystery  of  God. 

Into  a  silence  awful  and  confounding, 

Deep  as  the  stillness  with  which  night  comes  down, 
Dumb  as  the  Sphinx  her  problem  still  propounding, 

Death  swept  away  our  loved  and  loving  one. 

O  could  this  cruel  silence  but  be  broken, — 

The  cloud  dispelled  that  shuts  her  from  our  sight, — 

O  could  she  give  of  present  love  some  token, — 
How  would  our  hearts  stand  still  with  strange  delight. 

O  could  she  give  some  sign  to  our  inquiring, — 
Shine  in  a  star-beam,  whisper  in  a  breeze  ; 

How  would  it  soothe  us  in  our  long  desiring 
If  only  we  might  say,   "She  knows  and  sees!  " 

Could  she  but  speak  from  out  the  heavenly  places, 
Could  she  but  say,  "  I  live  and  think  of  you, — 

In  glory  e'en  I  miss  your  dear  embraces, — 

I'll  give  you  welcome  when  your  journey's  through; 


DARKNESS  AND   SILENCE. 

How  would  our  souls  rise  up  with  glad  assurance 
Of  what  we  must  believe  through  joy  or  pain ; 

Enclued  with  strong  and  resolute  endurance 
Till  we  shall  take  her  to  our  hearts  again. 

But  now,  alas,  with  no  such  guerdon  gifted, 
And  faith  too  often  under  deep  eclipse, 

The  silence  voiceless  and  the  dark  unlifted, 
The  cup  so  bitter  pressing  at  our  lips, 

We  move  bewildered  toward  the  heavenly  city 
To  meet  our  Darling  when  the  morn  shall  come. 

Patience,  O  Father,  grant ;  O  Jesus,  pity ! 

Till  Thy  dear  hand  bring  us  to  her  and  home. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  LIGHT. 

Through  darkened  days  the  sky  hung  low, — 
The  wind  wailed  mournfully,  and  slow 
Went  on  the  hours.     A  wild  storm  poured 
Its  wrathful  vials,  fully  stored. 
Upon  the  earth,  until,  dismayed, 
Men,  prayerless  long,  bowed  down  and  prayed 
For  sight  of  heaven's  fair  face  again, — 
For  the  clear  shining  after  rain. 

And  just  at  evening  from  the  west 
There  shot  a  golden  promise  blest ; 
A  rich  and  ruddy  sunset  ray — 
A  splendor  of  that  perfect  day 
Which  shines  above  the  clouds  alway — 
One  moment  broke  into  our  sight, 
And  died  in  swift-descending  night. 

But  men  who  saw  the  parted  sky, 
The  flash  that  gleamed  so  gloriously, 
Smiled  at  the  hopeful  prophecy. 

Is  it  not  light  O  God,  with  Thee  ? 


A  PR  A  YER  FOR  LIGHT. 

Casts  e'er  a  rising  cloud  between 
Thee  and  Thy  works  impervious  screen  ? 
I  stand,  I  hope,  I  hold  by  this, — 
With  God  all  light,  no  darkness  is. 

But  over  me  the  shadow  bends ; 
On  me  the  blinding  storm  descends; 
'Tis  darkness  all.     My  God,  I  cry, 
Where  is  my  hopeful  prophecy  ? 
Where  shall  I  find  the  bright-edged  rift 
That  lets  light  in?     O  when  shall  lift 
The  chilling,  cheerless,  crushing  pall 
That  wraps,  obscures  and  stifles  all? 

But  change  will  come.     Trust  is  not  vain ; 
There  must  be  sunshine  after  rain ; 
After  the  darkness  and  distress 
Must  come  the  dawning  day  of  peace. 
Sweet  voices  tell  me  that  so  sure 
As  God  is  light  enduring,  pure, 
Sometime  from  partings  in  the  west 
Shall  come  illumination  blest. 
Some  gleam  of  God  shall  yet  break  through 
To  fire  my  struggling  soul  anew 
With  hope  and  courage.     I  believe, 


SONGS  OF  SORRO  W. 

An.d  yet  'tis  dark.     Thou  who  did'st  give 
Thyself  to  be  of  men  the  light, 
Shine  through  this  envelope  of  night; 
Guide  Thou  my  darkened,  troubled  eye 
Toward  some  window  in  the  sky 
Where  I  may  see  Thy  blessed  face, 
And  seeing,  enter  into  peace. 


THE  GRAVES  VICTORY. 

O  how  her  faithful  hand  we  miss 
From  all  the  gentle  ministries 

Of  home  and  love ; 

Dear  hand,  laid  down  so  still  and  cold, 
The  heavy  mass  of  clay  and  mold 

Piled  deep  above. 

As  though  she  talked  with  One  divine, 
Love  saw  her  face  that  it  did  shine ; 

Now  that  is  hid, 

Dear  face,  beneath  a  mound  of  mold 
And  clay  so  dense  and  dark  and  cold, 

And  coffin-lid. 

Her  heart  so  true  in  every  beat, 
So  womanly  and  strong  and  sweet, 

We  sadly  laid, 

Dear  heart,  so  quiet,  changed  and  cold, 
Near  other  hearts  hid  in  the  mold, 

Of  other  dead. 


I4  SONGS  OF  SOXX  O  W. 

And  how  from  life  her  life  we  miss, 
Her  holy  woman-ministries, 

None  know  but  God  ; 
Dear  life,  of  helpfulness  untold, 
Now  quenched  and  lost  beneath  the  cold 

Concealing  sod. 


NATURE  AND  SORROW. 

Appalled  and  desolate  I  stood, 

When  my  great  sorrow  fell, 
Beneath  a  dense  and  rayless  cloud ; 

Amazed  as  in  a  spell. 
My  hope  and  very  life  were  gone ; 
I  faced  that  awful  blank ALONE  ! 

It  was  so  great  and  terrible, 

That  giant  grief  of  mine, 
It  seemed  that  earth  and  air  might  feel 

A  sympathy  divine ; 
That  soulless  things  my  hurt  might  see, 
And  give  some  sign  they  pitied  me. 

But  day  came  up  with  joy  and  cheer ; 

With  light  the  world  did  flame ; 
And  overhead  their  matins  clear 

The  birds  sang  just  the  same ; 
Just  as  in  happy  days  they'd  sung, 
When  all  my  joys  and  hopes  were  young ; 


SONGS  OF  SORROW. 

When  to  my  glad  bewildered  thought 

Nature  rejoiced  with  me; 
Bird-song  and  flowers  and  sunshine  brought 

Their  eager  sympathy : 
All  knew  and  felt  my  joy  it  seemed  ; 
Ah,  simple  child  I  was,  who  dreamed  ! 

And  when  so  swift  and  grievously 

My  day  of  bruising  came, 
And  midst  the  May-leaves  over  me 

The  birds  sang  just  the  same, 
And  light  and  gladness  in  the  air 
Proclaimed  that  nature  did  not  care, 

It  seemed  to  me  a  cruel  wrong ; 

For,  foolish  egotist, 
I  could  not  bear  the  gush  of  song, — 

The  flowers  by  sunlight  kissed. 
"  These  gloried  in  my  joy,"  I  said  ; 
"  They  mock  me  now  beside  my  dead." 

But  if,  in  gladness  or  in  tears, 

Love  moves  in  my  behoof, 
Then  is  it  best  that  nature  wears 

This  garment  sorrow-proof, — 


NATURE  AND  SORROW.  17 

Best  that  there  be  no  change,  no  sign 
Of  pain  for  anguish  such  as  mine. 

For  when  on  human  grief  or  bliss 

The  sun  pours  cheerful  flame, 
When  flowery  petals  dew-drops  kiss, 

And  birds  sing  just  the  same, 
Do  they  not  say,  "  Whate'er  befall, 
God's  one  great  thought  is  love  in  all?" 

They  bid  us  lay  our  sore  hearts  down 

On  the  paternal  breast 
Of  Him  whose  mighty  thoughts  move  on 

The  highway  of  the  Best ! 
Whose  gifts  may  bring  the  shroud  and  pall 
But  whose  one  thought  is  love  in  all. 


MA  RAH,  ELIM,  BOCHIM. 

Up  rose  the  race  God  purposed  to  deliver, 

With  wives  and  children,  in  the  night,  in  haste, 

Threw  off  their  servitude  by  Egypt's  river, 
The  blessings  of  their  promised  land  to  taste. 

Then  came  swift  flight  and  followed  swift  pursuing; 

Crying  of  women  and  despair  of  men ; 
Hope  of  escape,  foreboding  of  undoing ; 

The  Red  Sea  passage  and  the  triumph  then. 

Through  dreary  wilderness  and  desert  places, 
Looking  for  palm-trees  round  perennial  springs, 

Homeless  and  worn,  but  with  expecting  faces, 
Journeyed  the  chosen  of  the  King  of  kings. 

Did  not  the  Lord,  His  mighty  presence  lending, 
Go  on  before  them  in  the  cloud  and  flame  ? 

How  blessed  the  journey,  to  what  glorious  ending! 
How  glad  beneath  the  shelter  of  His  name  ! 


MAR  AH,  ELIM,  BOCHIM.  i 

So  came  they  on  to  shade  and  water  cooling, 
Through  dust  of  desert  and  the  glare  ot  sun, 

Singing  fit  praise  to  Him  who,  overruling, 

Gave  them  refreshing,  when  the  march  was  done. 

But  hark,  a  burst  of  loud  and  stormy  wailing ! 

Had  Abraham's  God  enticed  them  with  a  lie? 
Led  them  along  till  strong  men's  strength  was  failing, 

And  then  withdrawn  to  see  them  slowly  die  ? 

The  place  was  Marah  and  the  springs  were  bitter, 
And  bitter  speech  came  fast  from  lips  of  men ; 

*  Was  this  the  promise  to  the  fathers  ?  fitter 
The  bondage  with  the  food  of  Egypt  then. ' 

And  so  the  God  who  forth  had  called  them  led  them 
To  Marah  now,  and  thence  to  Elims'  palms ; 

Taught  them  severely — smote  them- while  he  fed  them, 
Gave  storm  an.d  tempest  after  peaceful  calms. 

He  gave  them  victory  and  great  rejoicing, — 
The  ringing  timbrel  and  the  dancing  feet ; 

He  too  gave  Bochim  with  its  plaintive  voicing, 
With  tears  and  shame  and  penitence  replete. 


3  SONGS  OF  SORROW. 

So  seems  it  still  that  whom  He  loves  and  chooses, 

Whom  He  inspires  to  seek  a  better  land, 
He  leads  by  rugged  desert  paths,  and  uses 
The  rod  of  chastening  with  a  heavy  hand. 

He  sends  great  pain  to  raptured  joy  succeeding, — 
First  freedom's  transport  and  then  Marah's  springs, 

Elim  and  Bochim  lie  the  way  He's  leading ; 
The  blessing  and  the  bitterness  He  brings. 

In  some  alembic,  strange  and  secret  blending, 
Sorrow  and  gladness  one  rich  blessing  grow ; 

To  highest  good  not  every  joy  is  tending, — 
To  deepest  harm  not  every  crushing  woe. 

And  God  gives  both  ;  we  sing  or  weep  before  Him — 
Stand  up  exulting — bend  like  bruised  reeds ; 

And  ever  for  that  clear-eyed  faith  implore  Him 
To  see  the  pillar  or  the  flame  that  leads: 

To  know  at  Marah  that  our  God  is  loving, 

Tenderly  loving  as  at  Elim  blest ; 
Midst  Bochim' s  tears  to  feel  Him  gently  moving 

Our  hearts  toward  Him  for  pure  and  trusting  rest. 


' '  THO  U  KNO  WEST  NO  T  NO  W, ' ' 

Do  not  I  know  ?     What  means  the  Lord  ? 
'Tis  not  like  Him,  not  like  His  word, 
Who  makes  our  countless  troubles  His, 
And  feels  our  oft  infirmities  ! 
He  surely  would  not,  could  not  say, 
When  sorrow  drinks  my  life  away — 
When  my  best  hope  and  joy  and  pride 
Go  down  into  the  grave  beside 
The  form  so  precious  to  my  love — 
In  grief  all  other  griefs  above — 
He  would  not  say  :     "  Thou  dost  not  know 
The  dark,  mysterious  thing  I  do. ' ' 

Do  not  I  know  ?     I,  hurt  and  sore, 
Yearning  for  joys  that  come  no  more, 
For  heart-communings  and  embrace, 
For  sound  of  voice  and  sight  of  face, 
That,  once  to  hear  again  and  see, 
Would  fill  my  soul  with  ecstacy  ? 
Is  my  whole  nature  dull  and  slow  ? 


SONGS  OF  SORROW. 

Can  I  not  feel  when  falls  a  blow  ? 

What  means  the  Lord,   "  Thou  dost  not  know  ?' 

I  marked,  for  days,  a  summer-bird 
Busy  with  hopeful  cares ;  and  heard 
Her  sing,  as  if  entirely  blessed, 
Around  the  deep  and  crowded  nest. 

But  soon  and  swift  a  storm-burst  came, 
With  wind  and  rain  and  lightning  flame, 
And  crashing  'mid  the  swinging  trees ;  ' 
And  when  it  passed  no  vestiges 
Of  nest  or  tender  young  were  found 
On  broken  bough  or  littered  ground. 

Did  not  she  know,  that  parent  bird, 
Whose  seeking,  sorrowing  note  I  heard, 
That  all  her  labor  had  been  vain  ? 
That  blooming  hope  had  fruit  in  pain  ? 

Writing  upon  the  beaten  sand 
Of  the  sea's  edge,  with  slender  hand, 
I  saw  a  graceful  girl.     A  thing 
Of  idle,  aimless  dallying 
It  seemed ;  but  anxious  prophecies, 
And  hopes,  and  maiden's  purposes 
That  filled  her  heart,  but  all  unsaid, 


1 '  THO  U  KNO  WEST  NO  T  NOW." 

On  the  hard  sand  were  deftly  spread. 
Thus  wrought  she,  all  intent,  alone ; 
Then  long  on  what  her  hand  had  done, 
She  silent  looked  and  mused  and  sighed. 

One  forward  wave  from  flowing  tide 
Came  sliding  up  the  smooth  incline, 
And  dashed  out  every  meaning  sign. 

Did  not  she  know  that  what  her  hand 
Unconscious  wrote  on  vacant  sand 
Had  gone  forever  from  her  view, 
As  vanishes  the  early  dew  ? 

So  do  I  know  what  has  been  done ; 
From  mid-day  sky  has  dropped  the  sun ; 
My  hope,  appalled  and  tempest-tost, 
Looks  up  no  more,  her  anchor  lost. 
O,  I  do  know;  I  feel  and  see 
The  heavy  hurt  that  crushes  me  ! 
So,  Lord,  in  pain,  I  answered  Thee. 

I  slept ;  and  whiles,  I  knew  not  how, 
The  buds  upon  the  apple-bough 
Burst  in  each  close  and  sharded  fold, 
,  And  freed  the  leaves  they  had  inrolled. 

I  knew  not  how,  but  where  the  seed 


[  SONGS  OF  SORROW. 

Had  fallen  for  the  future's  need, 
I  saw,  on  sharp  and  slender  blade, 
The  hastening  prophecy  of  bread. 

How  wrought  He  these  ?     I  could  not  tell ; 
His  ministers  invisible 
Had  moved  in  light  and  dark  and  air, 
— In  secret  working  to  prepare 
The  way  before  the  living  King — 
The  beauty,  bloom,  and  hope  of  Spring. 
His  work  I  saw ;  but  not  the  way 
Each  worker  went.     The  under-play 
Of  power  was  hid  from  sight  like  mine  ; 
The  work  disclosed  the  hid  design. 

So,  if  He  say:     "Thou  doest  not  know 
The  dark,  mysterious  thing  I  do, 
But  thou  shalt  know,  " — I  wait  until 
His  unseen  powers  their  task  fulfill ; 
I  wait,  and,  groping,  pass  through  these 
His  strange  and  voiceless  processes, 
To  learn  with  rapture  at  their  end, 
To  what  of  good  these  bruisings  tend. 
I  wait  on  Him  who  hides  His  thought 
Sometimes,  until  the  wonder  wrought 
Appears  to  our  new-opening  eyes, 


"  THOU  KNO  WEST  NOT  NOW. 

God's  love  made  clear,  without  disguise. 
I  wait,  and  bear  the  lingering  smart 
He  knows  is  burning  at  my  heart. 

I  do  believe  Thee,  Lord,  and  rest 
On  Thee  my  burden.     Sore  oppressed, 
Not  knowing  all  Thou  doest  now, 
Help  me  to  wait  my  time  to  know ; 
To  wait  until  the  blind  shall  see  ! 
So,  Lord,  in  faith,  I  answer  Thee. 


NOT  DEAD. 

I  think  her  living  yet ; 
It  cannot,  ought  not,  must  not  be 
That  death  hath  conquered  utterly; 
That  in  the  swift  and  fell  surprise 
That  stilled  her  heart  and  sealed  her  eyes, 
All  died  that  we  had  loved  and  known, — 
All  died  that  knew  and  loved  her  own  ; 

I  think  her  living  yet. 

I  think  her  living  yet 
Somewhere  in  God's  infinity ; 
Somewhere,  though  hidden  quite  from  me, 
She  being  has — she  walks  in  white, — 
She  knows  the  joy,  she  sees  the  light 
Of  those  who  reach  the  higher  planes, 
By  secret  ways  of  mortal  pains ; 

I  think  her  living  yet. 

I  think  her  living  yet 
An  angel  bright,  God's  minister 


NOT  DEAD. 

All-beautiful,  I  think  of  her. 
She  so  divinely  formed  to  bless, 
So  rich  in  woman's  tenderness, 
God's  hand  might  be  to  wipe  a  tear, — • 
His  voice,  with  words  of  holy  cheer. 
I  think  her  living  yet. 

I  think  her  living  yet. 
Two  little  ones  her  mother-love 
Asks  for  and  finds  and  clasps  above. 
Their  infant  spirit-speech  she  hears, 
And  on  her  mother-heart  she  bears 
Them  fondly  where  the  Shepherd  leads, — 
Where  by  still  streams  His  flock  He  feeds. 

I  think  her  living  yet. 

I  think  her  living  yet. 
In  glad  rejoicings  round  the  Throne 
She  serves  and  sings — she,  still  my  own, 
Goes  with  the  shining  companies, — 
The  Great  King  in  His  beauty  sees, — 
A  child  gone  home,  she  is  not  dead  ! 
Her  portion  she's  inherited. 

I  think  her  living  yet. 


50VGS  OP  SORROW. 

I  think  her  living  yet. 
And  when,  in  God's  time,  I  pass  on 
To  the  good  land  where  she  has  gonCj 
She'll  meet  me  at  the  portal  bright, — 
She'll  lead  to  Him  who  is  the  light 
Of  the  King's  city, — ever  mine, 
She'll  walk  with  me  the  ways  divine 

Where  she  is  living  yet. 


SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

Night  is  here  and  veiling  thickly 
Mountain,  valley,  plain  and  river ; 
But  its  shade  shall  vanish  quickly, — 
Shafts  of  golden  light  shall  quiver 
Soon  along  the  eastern  sky, 
Telling  that  the  day  is  nigh. 

Night  is  here,  but  not  forever 

Is  dominion  to  it  given  ; 

Light  must  rule,  but  darkness  never,— 

So  is  pledged  the  might  of  Heaven. 

Light  shall  reign  and  darkness  fly ; 

Light  shall  haste  to  victory. 

Night  of  evil,  hateful,  cruel, 
Hence  thy  shadows  shall  be  driven  ; 
Never  shalt  thou  have  renewal, — 
So  is  pledged  the  might  of  Heaven. 

Shines  there  now  the  prophet-ray, 

Eloquent  of  perfect  day. 


SONGS  OF  SORROW. 

Night  of  sorrow,  bitter,  cheerless, 

Soon  thy  terrors  shall  be  lifted  : 

Faith  looks  through  thee  strong  and  fearless, 

With  the  might  of  Heaven  gifted  ; 

Knowing  that  thy  gloom  shall  fade, — 

Waiting,  watching,  hot  afraid. 

Night  of  death  thy  morning  cometh, — 
Yes,  to  thee  shall  light  be  given  ; 
Jesus  Christ  thy  fading  doometh, — 
He  has  pledged  the  might  of  Heaven. 

Day  shall  soon  begin  with  Him, 

Without  night  or  twilight  dim. 


MISCELLANEOUS- POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


IMMANUEL. 

Read  at  the  Christmas  Festival  of  the    Plymouth    Church  of 
Des   Moines,    Christmas   Eve,  1872. 

Round  resting  flocks  a  shepherd  guard 
Through   the  still  night  kept  watch  and  ward, 
As,  'neath  the  sky  in  open  field, 
The  shepherd-men  from  days  of  eld 
Had  kept  their  flocks.     No  sign  was  seen 
Foretelling  change  from  what  had  been. 

As  when  from  old  Chaldaic  Ur 
Abraham   came   forth  a  wanderer, 
The   stars   looked   down    with    lambent    flame; 
All   things  continuing  the  same 
As  at  the  world's  beginning.     Men 
For  what   had  long  been  looked  again. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Still    are   ihe   shepherds ;  round  their  camp 
Stands  the    thick  wall    of  midnight  damp; 
Still  is  the  constellations'  march 
Along  the   firmamental  arch  ; 
All  things  are   hid  but    heaven  ;    as  when 
There  comes  to  crushed,    disheartened  men, 
Of  dearest   good  and    hopes  bereft, 
The  thought    that  only    God  is  left, — 
So   now,   night  hides  from  human  eyes 
All   but  the  heavenly  mysteries. 

Sudden    there  bursts  a  strange   surprise, —  . 
Sudden,  awe-struck,    the  shepherds   rise, — 
The  deeps   of  heaven   are  open   flung, — 
Peals   through  the  night   an  angel-song, — 
Shine,  through   the  dark,  supernal  fires 
Flashing  on  robes  of  heavenly  choirs, 
Who,    with   the   shout  of  God's   good  will, 
Proclaim    the    Prince  Immanuel. 

Celestial  spirits  joyful,  thus 
Announce   His  coming,   God    with  us. 

To    Bethlehem   then,    glad,   wondering, 
The   shepherds   go  to    hail    a   King. 
They    find  no  glittering,    gorgeous   train, — 
For   royal   state   they  look   in   vain, — 


1MMANUEL. 

They   see   no    swift-built  palace    towers, 
Nor  throne   nor  pride   of  kingly   powers; 
But    in  a  manger,  lighted   .dim, 
Where  only  earth  has   room  for  Him, 
They  see   an  infant  child, — for  thus 
Came   our   Immanuel,  God  with  us. 

O    holy,    gracious   infancy, 
God  ever  comes   to  man   in   thee ! 
Comes   near  us   in  a  little  child, 
Near  us,  with   hands   and   hearts   defiled, 
To   say,  /Tut  off  thy   shoes,    for   round 
An  infant's   couch  is   holy  ground  !  " 
Comes  near,  the  heart's  best  life    to  stir 
As  by  an  angel  messenger; 
To  teach   us  solemnly   to  say, 
"God  standeth  near  our  souls  to-day." 

So  does  the   Highest  earthward    turn, — 
So   into  human  households   born, 
He   comes  to  us  with  advent  sweet, 
To  turn   to  Him   our  wandering   feet. 

The  Word   made  flesh,  Immanuel   came, 
Still  God  with  us  in  sin  and  shame, 


36  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Not  with  hard  blows  to  smite  us  down, — 

To  blast  us  with  indignant  frown, — 

But  with  dear  pity  to  proclaim 

That  Love  is  the  almighty  name  ! 

To  show  each  sinning,   fearful  child 

God's  face,  already  reconciled ; 

As,    penitent,    we  bow  the  knee, — 

To  say  to  each,   "I-  pardon    thee; 

I  ask  not  tears  and  long  distress ; 

I,  God's  revealed  forgivingness, 

Bid  thee  arise  and  go  in  peace." 

Our  hopes  take  hold  on  glorious  things, 
Soaring   with   quick,    ambitious  wings; 
They   promise   that   we   too   shall   rise, 
Like  God's  great   saints,  to  victories 
O'er  sins   and    oft   infirmities. 
We  dare  to  hope  that  on  the  heights 
Our  feet   shall   walk,    'midst  the  delights 
By   valorous  overcoming  won, — 
With  those  who    blessed,  obtaining,  run. 

Feet  are  not  wings.     We  stumble,  fall 
As  we  go  on.     The   weak   and   small 


IMMANUEL.  37 

Affright,    dismay   and  cast  us  down ; 

Far  off  appears   the  victor's  crown ; 

And   oft  the   foolish   soul   avers 

That   they  who   more   than   conquerors 

Went  on  before,  had  grace  from  Heaven 

Only  to  favored  mortals  given. 

And  so   we   pant   and  fear   and  sigh, 

Know  not   the  joy  of  victory, 

And,  full   of  shame   and   deep   distrust, 

Turn   clouded  faces   toward   the   dust. 

To  men   o'erwhelmed,  discouraged   thus, 
He   comes,  Immanuel,  God  with  us, 
Breaking   no   slender,   bruised   reed, 
A   patient,    pitying   friend   indeed, 
To  say  to  each,    "O   downcast  soul, 
I    am   thy  helper   toward   the   goal. 
Dost   crave   some  shining  victory  ? 
'Tis   victory   to  walk   with   me 
In   valleys   low  and   modest   shade. 
Take  courage   then — lift  up   thy  head. 
The   saints   who  joyous  highways   trod 
Could  do   no   more   than   walk   with   God ! 
Thy  heart,   so   troubled,    rest   on   mine 
And   fear  no   more — God's   strength   is  thine.  " 


38  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

About   us   gathers   mystery ; 
What    is   this   being,  and    to   be  ? 
Offspring   of  God's   creating   power 
Does    He   care    for   and  love   us  more? 
Is    Father-hood  reality? 
Stoops   it   to   find  and   succor   me? 

Immanuel   conies,    a   human    form, 
With   all   divinest   passions   warm; 
Our  human   needs  and   pains   and   cares 
He   on   his   loving   bosom   bears. 
No   man   so   much   a   man    as   He, — 
God   perfecting   humanity. 

O   questioning   heart   and   vision    dim, 
The   Eternal   Father  see  in    Him, 
Who   from   our   weakness,    sins   and   shames, 
Exalts,  delivers   and  redeems. 

Broken   before   the  God  we   bless 
We   sink   and   surfer,    comfortless. 
A   hurt   is   ours   no   heart    can   share, — 
Which   we   can   neither   shun   nor   bear ; 
From   deepest  depths   for  help   we  cry; 
Help   in   a  life's  extremity. 


IMMANUEL.  39 

And   He  draws   near   and   goes   with  us 
Who  wept  o'er  buried  Lazarus: 
He  walks  on   gently  by   our  side 
Who   for   the  love    He   bore   us   died : 
No  friend   comes   near  us   as   does   He, — 
No   heart   so   pours  its   sympathy. 
To  Him  we   turn   from   fear  and   dread; 
In   His  dear  love  are   comforted ; 
The  bitterness   He   understands; 
We   feel   the   soothing   of  His   hands; 
In   Him   who   seeks   and  helps  us  thus, 
We   see   Immanuel,    God  with   us. 

Sing   then   to   Him  of  Bethlehem  ! 
Crown   Him  with   love's   pure   diadem. 
Ye   children  praise   Him   with  the  voice 
Of  childish   gratitude — rejoice 
In   Him   the   manger  held, — 
In    Him   who    God    to    man    revealed. 
All  people  praise   Him, — all   hearts   sing 
To   Him   God   gave — a  child — a  King. 
Give   thanks   aloud   for   God's   good   will 
Proclaimed   in  our   Immanuel. 


THE  MOTHER'S  SONG. 

Nestling  so  gracefully, 
Sleeping  so  peacefully 

My  darling,. my  dove  : 
Dear  Lord  approvingly, 
Tenderly,  lovingly, 

Look  from  above. 

Eyes  that  so  merrily, 
Pleasantly,  cheerily, 

Sparkled  and  shone; 
Eyes  that  all  tearfully, 
Wonderingly,  fearfully, 

Viewed  the  unknown. 

Tongue  that  so  wittily, 
Saucily,  prettily, 

Prattled  at  will — 
Prattled  untiringly, 
Mother  admiringly 

Listening  still. 


THE  MOTHER'S  SONG. 

Mouth  that  appealingly, 
Touchmgly,  feelingly, 

Trouble  did  tell; 
Mouth  which  so  speedily 
Laughing  right  readily, 

Rang  like  a  bell ; 

Lips  where  in  cosiness, 
Beauty  and  rosiness, 

Sweet  kisses  hide ; 
Lips  where  disdainfully, 
Pettishly,  painfully, 

Passion  did  bide ; 

Hands  that  all  beautiful, 
Teachable,  dutiful, 

Fondled  and  played; 
Hands  that  so  skilfully, 
Secretly,  wilfully, 

Law  disobeyed ; 

Feet  that  so  lightsomely, 

Trippingly,  blithesomely, 

Sported  and  danced ; 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Feet  whose  sweet  cheeriness 
Wore  into  weariness 
As  they  advanced ; 

All  nestling  gracefully, 
Slumbering  peacefully 

Are  ye  to-night ; 
Quietly,  trustfully, 
Silently,  restfully, 

Waiting  for  light. 

O,  best  benefaction 
And  dearest  attraction, 

Fairest  that  lives  ! 
In  sleep  so  beautiful, 
All  that's  undutiful 

Mother  forgives. 

Now  rest  thee  securely, 
Sleeping  so  purely, 

My  darling,  my  dove  : 
God's  angels  descending. 
About  thee  attending, 

Keep  thee  in  love. 


SYLVANUS  OF  MT.  SINAI. 

Time  was  when  good  men  from  all  scenes  defiled 
Fled  into  caves  and  dens  and  deserts  wild 
To  keep  themselves  from  sin ;  gave  up  the  fight 
With  Satan  for  the  world;  for  God's  dear  right 
To  hold  and  rule  the  souls  he  made,  gave  o'er 
The  contest  beaten ;  sadly  fled  before 
Rough  handed  might  and  craft  and  lies  and  all 
The  infernal  powers  which  held  the  world  in  thrall ; 
They  fled  from  sin — they  would  themselves  be  pure ; 
They  fled  from  vengeance  hastening — at  the  door ; 
They  saw  the  sign  of  near  prophetic  doom, 
And  sought  for  shelter  from  the  wrath  to  come. 

Now  in  that  fearful  time  of  flight  and  haste, 
When  fittest  covert  was  the  wildest  waste, 
There  came  a  band  of  Monks  to  Sinai.     Sin 
Drove  them  out  to  fight  in  solitude.     In 
That  rugged  wilderness  of  rock  and  earth 
They  hoped  the  new  life  might  in  them  have  birth 
And  grow.     Surrendering  all  they  had,  they  came 


4  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

To  worship  there  the  dear  Christ's  blessed  name ; 
The  outward  man  with  toils  and  fasts  subdue, 
The  inward  man  by  prayer  and  faith  renew. 

The  good  Sylvanus  was  their  Abbot.     He, 
Full  both  of  wisdom  and  simplicity, 
A  worthy  Father,  ordered  all  their  ways, 
And  pattern  set  in  discipline  and  praise. 
They  worked  to  live ;  their  simple  wants  supplied 
By  patient  culture  of  the  mountain-side. 
The  wilderness  and  solitary  place 
Gladdened  around  them  with  unwonted  grace; 
The  rule  held  sway  in  that  severe  retreat, 
11  If  none  will  work,  then  neither  shall  he  eat." 
With  early  morning,  while  the  east  was  dim, 
Up  rose  the  incense  of  their  matin  hymn 
And  simple  prayers.     Then  forth  they  sped 
To  wrest  from  barrenness  their  daily  bread. 

And  while,  one  morn,  they  wrought  beneath  the  sun 
There  came  to  them  a  priestly  stranger :  one 
Who  lived  by  faith,  not  works;  a  monk  whose  care 
And  glory  were  to  keep  himself  by  prayer. 
Well  kept  he  was,  and  saintly  was  his  mien ; 
His  rosary  lay  his  unsoiled  hands  between. 


SYLVAN  US   OF   MT.  SINAI.  45 

Of  salt  sweat  on  his  brow  he  liked  no  trace ; 
But  what  by  sweat  of  brow  was  won,  with  grace 
And  pious  air  in  cool  resort  could  eat, 
Thanking  the  Lord  who  sends  his  servants  meat. 
To  them  this  stranger : 

"  Know  ye  not  who  saith 
Ye  may  not  toil  for  meat  that  perisheth  ? 
I  have  that  gospel  written  in  my  heart ; 
I  follow  Mary  choosing  the  .good  part !  " 
Sylvanus  meekly  said : 

"Thou  choosest  well. 
Go,  Brother  Paulus,  show  this  monk  a  cell 
And  book.  Give  him  naught  more." 

Their  task  went  on ; 

The  sun  rose  higher,  neared  his  going  down. 
The  monks  of  Sinai  rested  from  the  strain 
Of  work,  ate  their  plain  fare,  then  wrought  again 
Until  the  vesper  hour  was  nigh.     None  said, 
"Where's  the  strange  brother?   Should  he  not  be  fed  ?" 
All  left  him  to  the  Abbot. 

In  the  cell 

The  monk  constrained  himself  to  read  j  then  fell 
Upon  his  face  and  prayed ;  his  sins  confessed ; 


46  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Penance  revolved  and  smote  upon  his  breast ; 

Then  read  again  the  book ;  his  soul  alert 

To  give  no  vantage  to  the  mass  inert 

Of  his  vile  body,  despicable,  base, 

Of  countless  sins  the  nurse  and  hiding  place. 

But  as  time  flew  his  thoughts  likewise  took  wing 

And  wandered  widely  ;  a  forbidden  thing,    v 

He  thought  of  food :   reproved  himself  and  prayed. 

"A  noble  fashion  have  these  monks,"  he  said. 

"They  mortify  the  flesh;  fast  sin  away; 

Shall  I  not  equal  them?     Oh,  let  me  pray."' 

He  fought  a  losing  fight.       His  fleshly  foes 
To  greater  insolence  each  hour  arose. 
The  carnal  trampled  the  superior  soul ; 
The  body  urgent  clamored  for  control. 
The  book,  the  prayer,  the  penance  lost  the  power 
To  hold  his  mind  to  duty.     Every  hour 
Spirit  grew  faint  and  feeble,  flesh  grew  strong; 
Devotion  vanished  as  the  day  waxed  long. 

And  in  despair  he  cried  : 

"Shall  these  men  win 
Their  crowns  by  such  heroic  discipline, 
And  I  lose  mine?     They  work  and  fast ;  while  I 


SYLVANL-S   OF  MT.  SINAI.  4; 

Pray  the  day  long,  but  gain  not  mastery. 
These  Sinai  monks  seem  made  of  sternest  stuff; 
Their  discipline  is  like  their  mountain,  rough  !  " 

The  monk  was  hungry,  and  his  hunger  made 
His  cell  a  cage,  his  prayers  pretense :   it  played 
With  carnal  thoughts  of  more  than  Lenten  fare — 
A  Devil's  tempter  to  the  man  of  prayer. 

At  length  he  yielded  j  sought  the  Abbot ;  said ; 
"  Do  not  you  ask  the  Lord  for  daily  bread  ? 
Do  not  you  eat  it  daily  when  'tis  given, 
And,  eating,  bless  the  generous  grace  of  Heaven  ? 
Do  not  the  brethren  eat  at  all  to-day?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Abbot. 

"  Why  not  call  me,  pray?" 
And  then  Sylvanus  said : 

"  Thou  dost  not  need, 
As  others  do,  on  fruits  and  bread  to  feed. 
We  all  are  carnal.     We  must  eat  because 
We  work.     To  earth  this  earthy  nature  draws. 
But  thou,  so  blessed  with  faith,  so  rich  in  heart^ 
Need'st  not  to  eat !     Thou'st  chosen  the  good  part." 

Whereat  the  stranger  was  ashamed,  'tis  said, 
That  he  should  only  pray,  not  work,  for  bread. 


JOHN  OF  MT.  SLVAf. 

Among  the  Sinai  monks  the  brother  John, 
A  shrunk  and  dwarfish  man,  was  numbered;  one 
Who  winced  beneath  the  burden  of  the  cross; 
And  while  he  claimed  to  count  his  gain  but  loss 
For  Christ,  he  counted  grudgingly  the  gain 
He  lost,  and  gave  it  up  for  Christ  with  pain. 

And  when  to  labors  till  the  evening  damp 
Were  added  vigils  by  the  midnight  lamp, 
Abundant  hardships  after  meager  fare, 
Of  sleep  o'er  little,  and  o'er  much  of  prayer, 
The  monk's  vocation  seemed  no  easy  yoke 
And  burden  light,  of  which  the  Master  spoke. 
He  bore  it  with  impatience.     Poor,  unwise, 
He  dwelt  upon  the  pain  of  sacrifice 
And  lost  its  blessing.     In  his  troubled  breast 
His  wrung  soul  cried  a  bitter  cry  for  rest. 

"  Behold,"  said  he,  "  the  lilies,  how  they  grow! 
They  toil  not,  spin  not,  yet  I  surely  know 


JOHN  OF  MT.  SINAI.  49 

They  give  God  glory  which  He  pleased  receives, 
And  them  His  easy  service  never  grieves. 

"The  angels,  too,  in  their  celestial  spheres, 

No  flagellations  have,  nor  fasts,  nor  tears 

To  make  their  service  bitter.     Only  men 

Serve  God  with  utter  wretchedness."     And  then 

He  vowed  to  break  the  chains  the  brothers  wore, 

And  run  their  toilsome  treadmill  round  no  more  j 

To  give  himself  away  to  God,  and  free 

His  soul  from  care.     As  angels  live,  so  he 

Would  live  thereafter — by  God's  grace  sustained, — 

The  world  become  his  paradise  regained. 

He  turned  from  Sinai  and  the  monks  away, 
Threw  off  as  needless  his  rough  cloak  of  gray, 
(For  Angel  life  could  ask  no  mortal  gear) — 
And  sought,  far  off,  the  Presence  ever  near. 

Into  the  desert  waste,  the  solitude 
Which  girt  the  mountain  round,  where  scanty  food 
Or  drink  or  cooling  shade  existed,  went 
The  eager  man,  to  rest  with  God  intent. 
To  be  as  the  white  angels  are,  his  prayer ; 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

To  walk  with  them — their  easy  service  shaie. 
So  seven  days  went  by.     The  brotherhood 
Surprised,  amazed  at  John's  exalted  mood, 
Spoke  little  of  the  wanderer ;  and  when 
They  mentioned  him,  those  simple  monkish  men 
Devoutly  crossed  themselves  on  breast  and  brow 
And  said,  "  Our  brother's  with  the  angels  now! 
He  rose  up  with  a  simple,  daring  faith 
And  cast  himself  on  God,  not  waiting  death." 

But  those  few  days  sore  trial  brought  to  John, 
Shelterless,  friendless,  in  the  desert  lone. 
From  the  forgetful  heaven  no  manna  fell. 
No  spring  leaped  out  of  rock.     No  visible 
Appearance  proved  that  God  took  kindly  note 
Of  his  pressed  servant.     From  fat  lands  remote 
No  raven  came  his  daily  bread  to  bring. 
In  their  strong  arms  no  angels  ministering 
Bore  up  the  wanderer  lest  his  weary  feet 
Against  the  sharp,  injurious  stones  should  beat. 
The  sun  smote  him  by  day.     By  night  the  wind 
Shriveled  and  pierced  him  with  its.  blasts  unkind  . 
The  desert  scared  him  with  its  aspect  rude ; 


JOHN  OF  MT.  SINAI.  51 

Not  that  way  lay  the  path  to  angelhood 
And  beatific  joys.     The  monk  a  man 
Remained — a  mortal  pinched,  forlorn  and  wan. 
He  could  not  cast  himself  on  God.     In  vain 
With  tears  he  strove  desired  release  to  gain 
From  the  sore  burden  that  his  life  had  been  ; 
From  toil  and  care  and  cross  as  well  as  sin. 

And  as  the  seventh  day  went  darkly  down, 
And  all  his  brother  monks  were  housed,  poor  John 
Came  stumbling  in  the  night,  seeking  the  door 
He  left  with  highest  hope  one  week  before. 
He  knocked.     The  Abbot  heard  within  and  cried, 
"  Who  knocks?"   "  'Tis  I,  'tis  John,"  a  voice  replied. 
"Nay,"  said  the  Abbot,   "  John  no  more  with  men 
Hath  part  or  lot.     He  comes  not  here  again 
From  his  high  company.     With  shining  throngs 
Of  angels  now  he  walks — to  them  belongs." 

The  door  was  shut.     Nor  earth  nor  man  had  place, 
Angels  nor  God,  for  one  who  had  not  grace 
To  serve  the  Lord  with  patience.     Down  John  fell 
Along  the  threshold  weeping.     The  strong  swell 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Of  his  sore  spirit  shook  him.     Long  he  cried 
For  the  forgiveness  of  the  crucified, 
The  suffering  Christ  who,  patient,  bore  the  cross 
That  men  for  Hirn  might  count  all  gain  but  loss. 

And  then  the  angels  came  to  John ;  while  he 
Essayed  no  more  as  angels  are  to  be, 
Nor  sought  them,  lo,  they  came  to  him;  and  peace 
New-found,  poured  through  his  soul  its  blessedness. 

And  in  the  morning,  when  the  door  stood  wide, 
John  took  his  place  close  at  the  Abbot's  side, 
And  said,  "Forgive  me  that  I  went  astray. 
Forget  my  foolish  weakness.     As  I  lay 
Last  night  without,  the  pitying  Master  came ; 
He  spoke  me  tenderly,  called  me  by  name, 
And  said  to  me,  'Serve  me  content  as  man. 
For  man,  not  angel,  was  the  Gospel  plan. 
Give  me  a  patient  human  love.     Obey 
My  rule  ;  for  my  sake  bear  the  cross ;  then  may 
The  angels  see  and  wonder  at  above 
The  beauty  of  a  soul  renewed  by  love.'  " 

And  thenceforth  John,  until  the  day  he  died, 


JOHN  OF  MT.  SINAI.  53 

Served  in  his  place  with  patience ;  mortified 
The  flesh,  and  as  a  true,  repentant  man, 
Gave  Christ  the  service  that  no  angel  can. 


THE  RIVER  TO  THE  NIGHT* 

O  welcome,  yes  welcome,  thou  blessed  night ! 
Thrice  welcome  art  thou  to  me ; 

In  thee  I  may  go  with  a  peaceable  flow 
Far  on  to  the  measureless  sea, — 
The  sea  that  is  waiting  for  me. 

O  cruel  and  galling  the  yoke  I  wear ; 

Dark  night  I  murmur  to  thee ; 
In  bondage  I  go  with  laborious  flow 

To  rest  in  the  welcoming  sea, — 

The  sea  that  is  calling  to  me. 

O  freedom,  dear  freedom,  no  longer  mine, 

My  thoughts  are  ever  of  thee : 
Ne'er  again  shall  I  know  the  rapturous  flow 


*  This  piece  was  composed  while  the  writer  was  residing  in  the  valley 
of  one  of  those  hard-worked  New  England  rivers,  of  which  so  much  is 
exacted  on  the  way  to  the  ocean. 


THE  RIVER  TO  THE  NIGHT.  55 

That  once  marked  my  way  to  the  sea, — 
The  sea  that  was  asking  for  me. 

0  music,  sweet  music,  merciful  night, 
Is  thy  deep  silence  to  me ; 

A  story  of  woe  is  my  turbulent  flow 

Down,  down  to  the  sheltering  sea, — 
The  sea  that  is  refuge  for  me. 

The  story  is  long  of  my  bondage  to  wrong  ; 

1  cannot  portray  the  half  in  my  song. 

Far,  far  to  the  north  into  light  I  leaped  forth 

As  free  as  the  bird  to  sing  through  the  earth ; 

To  the  hills  with  my  voice  I  shouted,   "  Rejoice  !  " 

And  echo  caught  up  the  jubilant  noise, 

And  the  hail  of  the  rill  to  each  answering  hill 

Repeated,  in  shouts  that  never  were  still. 

The  trees,  as  in  love,  waved  their  banners  above, 

And  laughed  as  I  kissed  the  feet  of  the  grove  ; 

Over  me  in  my  bed  their  branches  they  spread, 

A  shield  from  the  sun  that  blazed  overhead. 

I  gathered  the  brooks  from  inviolate  nooks 

Of  mountain  recess  and  sentinel  rocks, 

To  journey  with  me  as  unbridled  and  free, 


56  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

A  child  of  delight,  I  rolled  to  the  sea. 

The  grasses  that  grew  on  my  either  bank  drew 

Their  life  from  my  depths,  their  delicate  hue. 

The  birds  dipped  the  bill,  quickly  drinking  their  fill, 

And  rendered  their  thanks  with  warble  and  trill. 

I  bore  the  lillies  sweet-scented  flotillas, 

Wafting  afar  to  hamlets  and  villas 

Breath  sweetly  laden  for  lover  and  maiden, — 

Incense  like  that  of  morning  in  Eden. 

I  mirrored  the  grace  and  the  sportive  embrace 

Of  children,  down-looking  into  my  face. 

My  will  I  obeyed"  as  I  loitered  in  shade, 

Still  lying  and  dark  in  thicket  and  glade, 

Creeping  through  sedges,  mad  darting  down  ledges: 

Swirling  I  dashed  midst  boulders  and  wedges 

Of  rough,  riven  rock,  as,  with  laughter  and  mock, 

I  burst  away  aught  my  progress  would  block. 

No  hard  master  ruled  me — glad,  triumphing,  free, 

I  joyfully  journeyed  on  to  the  sea. 

But  alas  for  the  days,  alas  for  the  ways 
I  sadly  recall — regretfully  praise. 
My  freedom  is  gone — now  a  master  I  own, 


THE  RIVER  TO  THE  NIGHT.  57 

And  wearing  his  yoke  I  murmur  and  moan. 

I  grind  in  the  mill ;  I  am  broke  on  the  wheel ; 

I  beat  out  my  life  on  copper  and  steel ; 

The  oak,  mountain  giant,  gnarled,  defiant, 

I  cut  and  shape  to  all  uses  pliant. 

The  spindles  I  drive  and  the  looms,  in  that  hive 

Where  man  and  machine  seem  both  all  alive. 

From  dawn's  early  gray  till  the  light  fades  away, 

Like  Samson,  I  in  the  prison-house  play. 

Afar  I  am  led  from  my  own  chosen  bed ; 

Am  beaten  to  foam — to  tatters  am  shred. 

Once  all  the  day  long  the  bright  birds  blent  their  song 

In  chorus  above  as  I  stole  along; 

Now  I  scarcely  can  hear  their  melodies  clear, 

So  loud  whir  the  wheels  and  rattle  their  gear ; 

And  I  painfully  go,  bruised,  broken  and  slow, 

To  rest  after  toil  in  the  ocean  below. 

Then  welcome,  yes  welcome  thou  blessed  night, 

The  rest  thou  bringest  to  me ; 
In  darkness  I  know  brief  repose  as  I  go 

On,  on  to  my  home  in  the  sea, — 

The  sea  that  is  thirsting  for  me. 


58  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

A  vision,  stern  vision,  thou  tyrant  man, 
Of  fate  that  hangs  over  thee  : 

Time's  river  doth  go,  with  hurrying  flow, 
On,  on  to  the  infinite  sea, — 
The  sea  that  is  waiting  for  thee. 


DREAM-LAND. 

When  the  mind  is  worn  and  weary, 
With  the  strain  of  thought  oppressed, 
When  the  body  spent  with  toiling 
Languishes  for  quiet  rest,  ^, 

Grateful  is  the  glowing  setting 
Of  the  sun  behind  the  west. 
Welcome  are  the  sunset  shadows, 
Lengthened  by  the  level  beams 
Till  the  child  looms  up  a  giant, — 
Till  the  mound  a  mountain  seems. 
Welcome  is  the  solemn  darkness, — 
So  each  weary  laborer  deems, 
As  he  floats  on  sleep's  soft  pinions 
Toward  the  mystic  land  of  dreams. 

Once  within  the  enchanted  border, 
Enters  he  another  life 
Strangely  colored  and  fantastic, 
With  a  new  experience  rife ; 


MISCELLANE O US   POEMS. 

He,  no  unconcerned  spectator 

Of  its  scenes  of  joy  or  strife. 

Wandering  forth  from  sleep's  still  prison 

While  the  body  silent  lies, 

Close  before  his  crowded  vision 

Forms  of  beauty  thronging  rise, 

And  he,  earnest,  gazes  on  them 

With  his  ravished  spirit-eyes. 

Gladly  too,  he  goes  among  them, 

With  a  bright  and  kindly  band 

Of  the  dream-folk,  who  stand  ready, 

Taking  his  freed  spirit-hand, 

To  conduct  him  midst  the  wonders 

Of  their  wonder-teeming  land; 

Of  the  land  where  no  conception 

So  unreal  is  or  wild 

That  it  may  not  be  embodied ; 

Where  existence  is  beguiled 

By  a  fairer  ministration 

Than  on  waking  man  has  smiled  ; 

Where  for  each  disturbing  sorrow 

Flows  the  soft  Lethean  spring, 

And  the  hurt  heart,  for  the  moment 


DREAM-LAND.  61 

Feels  no  touch  of  suffering; 
Where  no  forms  of  coming  evil 
Their  ill-omened  shadows  fling. 
There  our  cherished  air-built  castles 
From  their  shapeless  ruins  rise, 
Standing  sure,  though  unsupported, 
Till  they  touch  the  vaulted  skies, 
And  we  see  each  rising  wonder 
Without  question  or  surprise. 

Now  these  flitting  dream-land  spirits 
Memory's  treasures  open  throw, 
And  her  dearest,  costliest  riches 
Gilt  with  dream-land  sunlight  glow. 
Now  they  summon  our  companions, — 
Cherished  friends  of  long  ago, 
Scattered  earth-wide, — gone  forever, — 
Gone  on  that  returnless  flow 
Of  the  life-stream,  going,  going 
Fast,  but  whither  none  may  know. 
These  come  back  to  glad  re-unions, — 
Come  their  love  for  us  to  show; 
Come  with  all  their  charm  and  beauty, 
Losing  no  remembered  grace, 


62  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Lay  their  sweet  touch  on  our  forehead, 
Lay  upon  our  own  their  face, 
Speak  the  deep  things  of  the  spirit, 
And  the  lost  so  long  replace. 

Or  these  dream-folk  act  the  prophet 
Of  a  joy  that  soon  shall  be, 
Light  the  coming  days  with  promise, 
Bid  us  lift  our  eyes  and  see 
That  the  best  things  we  have  hoped  for 
Have  become  reality ; 
That  they  bring  the  treasured  future 
With  each  good  it  has  in  store 
Backward  to  the  living  present, — 
With  the  joy  which  lies  before 
Mingling  that  already  tasted, — 
Joy,  when  waking,  known  no  more. 

Very  beautiful  is  dream-land 
With  its  gladsome  forms  of  light ; 
Clouds  need  there  no  silver  lining, 
For  they  are  as  silver  bright ; 
But  I  think  of  the  awaking, 
When  all  dreams  shall  take  their  flight, 
And  I  ask  "what  now  is  coming?" 


DREAM-LAND. 


With  a  hush  akin  to  fright, 

For  I  sec  these  glib-tongued  prophets 

Seldom  prophesy  aright. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


I  10-m-ll,  '50(2555)470 


PS 


Frisbie  - 


1721   Songs  of  sorrow] 
F917s 


UCLA-Young  Research   Library 

PS1721    .F917s 


L  009  525  105  4 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


PS 

1721 

F917s 


AA    001217763   o 


